Bruised
by wouldyouliketoseemymask
Summary: She made it so easy, the poor thing, and yet he had not grown bored of her. Joker/Harley, one-shot.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights to _Batman_ or any character contained within the _Batman_ universe.

**A/N:** This fic was inspired by one of Tumblr user **piranhascantsmile**'s headcanons and the _Mad Love _comic. It features abusive elements and may be triggering.

**Bruised**

She had become an entertaining way for Joker to pass his time in Arkham, and there were a great deal of inconsequential qualities about her that he found amusing: the way her blonde hair looked when tangled around his bone-white fingers, the barely-visible glimpse of red toenail polish beneath her nylon stockings, the fact that she'd hated the name "Harley" but positively swooned at the sound of it on his lips. At this point, "therapy" was entirely a false pretense, and their hours together were spent discussing her and all of her thoughts, fears, and insecurities—and wasn't he just _wonderful_ for listening, for caring? She made it so easy, the poor thing, and yet he had not grown bored of her. Perhaps it was all those charming little traits that held his attention, and a curious wonder of how far he could take her and how eagerly she would follow.

Besides, what else was there to do? They'd taken away his finger paints.

One day he had asked if he could kiss her, and took great delight in watching her struggle between her profession and her desire; ultimately he had won, as he always did and always would, and she had left the room with cheeks flushed pink from excitement, eyes sparkling behind her glasses and a fresh bruise concealed by the bottom of her skirt. From then on each session would result in a new mark, a shared secret underneath her clothing and evidence of their intimacy. At home in an apartment that now seemed empty and cold, she would strip and observe the varying shades of violet and red and blue in her mirror, running her fingers across her skin and pretending they were his; afterwards she would climb into bed naked, and cry because he was not there.

She would relay all this to him the next day, and as his stomach clenched with suppressed gales of laughter he would wipe away her mascara-stained tears and tell her that he wanted nothing more than to sleep beside her, to share a bed and blankets and warmth, and to drift off into peaceful slumber with her in his arms. But they could never truly be—not while there were locks and guards and cruel, unjust labels like "criminally insane".

Not while there was Batman.

And so she forced herself to be content with their stolen moments, and after a time he finally grew bored. One morning she arrived at Arkham to discover that he had escaped the night before, and quickly retreated to her office to collapse into a sobbing heap on the floor. For a week she existed in a state of frantic sorrow, smoking cigarette after cigarette and poring over every word of _The Gotham Times_—**Joker Still At Large! Body Count Rises!** By now the bruises had faded, and at night she was too tired to cry.

When she heard that he had returned, she had nearly sprained an ankle running in her heels—the cherry-red vinyl pair, _his _favorite—to the asylum entrance, pushing onlookers to the side as she made her way through a crowd of white jackets and nursing uniforms. The ever-heroic Batman was dragging him unceremoniously through the corridor by his jacket, scowling with disgust as if he were handling soiled garbage, and a rage unlike any that she had felt before surged through her. His blood was bright against his translucent skin, his fine suit now shreds of ripped purple and his hair a green disheveled mess—and yet he still grinned, bloodied lips turned upwards to reveal cracked teeth.

_No! His smile! _

She lunged forward and wrapped her arms around him protectively, cradling his head against her breast as she gently stroked his face. _Why? Why?! _She looked up at the caped man, wet eyes burning with hate, and was met with shock. Of course the brute couldn't comprehend her love—_no one_ could, least of all a hateful beast like him.

Hands pried at her arms, pulling her away from him; she struggled and tried to tighten her grip, but already they had begun to drag him down the hall, back to his cell and away from her. _No, no, no!_ Fresh tears of helplessness clouded her vision, and when she finally arose from the floor he was long gone.

Not again. _Never_ again.

Later she stood in front of his cell while he slept, her hands pressed longingly against the cool glass, and made her choice.


End file.
